


Wyrmblooded

by bravevesperian



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 13:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14619474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravevesperian/pseuds/bravevesperian
Summary: A collection of drabbles and musings pulled from my Estinien RP blog and reassembled for the general public's perusal.





	1. To Become a "Thief"

**Author's Note:**

> A drabble from a new recruit’s PoV of the day that Estinien vanished and “stole” the Eye.

It was Fouchaux's first day officially wearing the uniform of the Knights. He had worked most of his young life to see this day come, a lancer—in the shadow of the great dragoons. Perhaps someday, he thought he might even join their ranks well if he lived long enough to. He would be handed no easy path to glory, coming from the low born lineage that was his. When the Calamity had come, his family had fled Coerthas only to find some mode of shelter (if it could be called that) in the Brume. He’d heard the tales of the great warriors and their hopes for the future—it was what he wanted to achieve, perhaps the only thing one such as he could. 

He had nearly gotten lost on the way to morning training; it was a part of the city he was unfamiliar with. At least things seemed to be well underway when he arrived if the sound of the commotion had told him anything at all. Only—upon closer examination, it seemed to not be a terribly normal thing at all. He did not announce himself as he likely should have, but found some knights who were vaguely familiar, perhaps members of the Heavensward if he recalled—bodily restraining a dragoon who was all but tossing men twice his weight around with little care. 

“What did you _do_? Damn it, you know you can’t go ‘round taunting him lest the Eye have its way with you.” A man in white with a ponytail and scarred features snapped at another. He took the brunt of a blow as the dragoon wrenched his arm free and plowed into him. It was by Halone’s grace alone that he seemed to roll to the side and miss any further damage, though he seemed quite winded. 

“Oi, give it a rest. I say he’s naught more than dragon now anyway, thing’s got his 'ead all scrambled. Won’t be much to say 'bout it If we skewer 'im in self-defense now–” Another man, much taller than the last snorted in response. 

It took him and his entire (more than impressive) weight to bear the dragoon to the ground, and in doing so knocked lose his helmet—a cascade of snowy hair falling down around his shoulders as the man beneath snarled. What held the poor recruit’s attention the longest in that moment, unforgettable as it was—was the unnatural glow of the man’s eyes as if he had been overtaken by some voidsent or worse. But—that too began to fade as he caught his breath and his struggling ceased, though it petered out as though with some effort. 

The third knight, with straight hair that framed his face in sharp angles, almost as light in color as the crestfallen dragoon’s stood in front of him, arms crossed as he shook his head. 

“How far you have fallen, Azure Dragoon. Can you even be called that? Or are you more a heretic than a dragoon, now?” 

The exchange left poor Fouchaux shaken, and he felt as though he had looked upon something that he shouldn’t have-- he had to clamp his hand over his own mouth to keep from intervening. This—this was their famous Azure Dragoon, barely able to hold himself together, having to be restrained by men who seemed far less concerned with his well being and more as though—they _liked_ the idea of him failing– 

_**Defend yourself! Say something—gods, prove you’re the hero I looked up to–** _

Finally, the man spoke, his voice hoarse and strained. “This bout is over. Release me, and think twice before demanding to spar me when I’m not in the mood.” There was no gentleness in it, but finally, they seemed to have let up on him as he was able to wrench his arm free and get to his feet. As though he hated eyes upon him at all, the man immediately scooped up his helmet and worked it back onto his head, straightening the visor. 

“Enough is enough. You think this is terrifying? You’ve no idea what the wyrm has planned—what the bastard is capable of. No, this _has_ to end. Let your Astrologians squabble amongst themselves about the movements of the horde. I see it. I feel it, and he is coming.” And he turned on his heel and stalked from the room, nearly bowling Fouchaux over in the process. The poor recruit stumbled back, flattening himself against the wall—he got only a moment’s glance, full of venom, a flash of that awful crimson stare from beneath the visor and… then he was gone. 

“You there, boy—you’re the new recruit aren’t you? You’re late.” The first man barked at him, and he slowly, shakily made his way forward. 

There was no hope in this war, he thought if their Azure Dragoon couldn’t save them. And from the sounds of it, their war was only just beginning.


	2. The Rancor of Nidhogg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The burden of the Eye is greater than any but the Azure Dragoon could bear.

Estinien awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in his bed. His pale hair clung muddy and dark to his face, dampened by the cold sweat on his features. If only it was a simple nightmare– simple and easily dismissed. The hatred, the vicious rancor that flowed through him when his consciousness slipped away into the darkness of his mind seemed to always come to the forefront when he slept, as though the great wyrm could come within inches of seizing control of him fully before he jolted awake just enough to wrestle back control. Over and over they danced, never a moment's rest for the man whose mind was locked in eternal combat with the undying wyrm.

Perhaps this was the source of the dark circles under his eyes, the way his face had become gaunter than ever. He cared little for it though, as he made sure that his armor covered anything that could be seen as a personal detail of him more often than not. But now he was without that armor, and it made him tremble as though he wasn’t now mostly used to the biting cold that had gripped Ishgard in the wake of the calamity.

No, it wasn’t that at all– it was that Nidhogg knew how to hurt him. Knew his deepest fears and convictions. Knew just which throat to imagine tearing into, ruby red gushing over blue and gold and pale, porcelain skin–

Nidhogg hated all of humanity, but he had grown a very special, localized hatred for the man who carried his eye. The wyrm had spent years finding ways to destroy what Estinien loved– from pushing him to obliterate what relationship he had with his surrogate father figure, to the alienation of the Warrior of Light in the same fell swoop. Two Azure Dragoons? _What a laugh_ –

The sound of whimpered crying startled him, and he looked around as though quite expecting to see someone else in the room with him though there was no one– t'was not the barracks, but an inn. There was no one around but himself– and only at that realization did he accept that the sound had come from him, that the burning was not only the rage but _tears_ and sorrow, _sorrow_ at what he had lost and what Nidhogg thought to further take from him. It was why he must be more diligent. Learn to sleep even less than he already did if he must.

Aymeric must not fall. Aymeric was Ishgard’s only hope, and he would see to it that he rose, and rose, and rose– it was his only other ambition. The image in his mind, a horrible grotesque rendition of himself, with his hands around his throat, teeth bared as though to tear it out was too much to bear.

And Nidhogg seethed within his mind, pleased with how acutely he had managed to strike the Dragoon’s weakness. More reason, still to swallow it down and close himself off further. He must not allow Nidhogg to see any more of Aymeric than absolutely necessary. It could give him too many chances to see too many weaknesses. Estinien could not feel his own heart breaking, though that was certainly the pain in his chest. He had let the knight too close already, too close to the awful fires of damnation just on the other side– with only Estinien’s own determination between them as a shield.

There was no one around, he reminded himself, and in the rare air of privacy, he wept until his resolve returned to him. Another offer for a drink or a shared meal from the man and he would refuse. He would continue to feign disinterest, continue to hide beneath the visor of his helm. And oh the way it pleased Nidhogg that he would deny himself happiness to protect that man did him no favors– he couldn’t win for losing.

Estinien did not sleep that night, nor more than 4 hours the next, or the next, or the next. There was plenty of talk about him already, a man ‘possessed’ they said– And he knew he hurt Aymeric with every feigned display of disinterest, but not nearly so much as he hurt himself when he longed so deeply for that contact– he felt the eyes of the Holy See on him, as he walked the fine line between hero and heretic, and he could not waver for even a moment.


	3. Winter, Freed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hypothetical return to Foundation after the events of Stormblood and the level 70 Dragoon Job quest. I like to think that Estinien started wandering Dravania and eventually followed the action out East, etc. etc.

The cobblestones under his feet and the narrow streets lined with their stone dwellings made his footfalls echo: all terribly familiar. Estinien had wandered those streets countless times. Sometimes feeling triumphant, sometimes dismayed. Sometimes, drunk and desperate. Often times, he had found solace in the dark underbelly of Foundation, and he wondered if it was a time in is life now riddled with regret or if it had freedom in its own right– he wasn’t entirely sure.

Over and over, he had told himself that he would not live to see the peace. He had not dreamed that he would walk the streets in anonymity without his armor that pointed him out like a beacon of crimson and death. He painted himself in a different kind of red now, red as the color of life and victory, according to an alchemist he’d spoken to once on the road. Blood Dragoon, he’d told their Warrior of Light. If only he could live to embody that now, to truly cast off the idea of “Azure Dragoon.”

Now, Estinien knew that his time had come to an end: His place on the grand stage of Hydaelyn’s play finally over. He had expected to go out with a bang, but here he was– a whisper on the wind as he plied the shadows that always clung in these tight, meandering alleyways.

Faunehm, Vedrfolnir and Orn Khai–Vidofnir– all of the strange found family he had taken for himself on his wanderings weighed heavily in his mind: But it was a pleasant weight. It was the weight of a man who had something for the first time after so long of having nothing at all. He stopped to gaze upon the light streaming from the windows of the Forgotten Knight. Though the chill was not bitter, it was definitely colder than the clothes he’d been wearing as of late could do much against. The Azim Steppe was after all, a very different clime.

Estinien remembered when the snow had begun to fall, and the lakes began to freeze over. He remembered the children of the Brume squealing about how Starlight had come at Midsummer! Unaware of the consequences and simply glad to have something to enjoy after the ravages of Meteorfall. He remembered watching them, lip curled and nostrils flared, fists clenched as he tried to bite back the simmering rage that was not entirely his own. Fools the lot of them– and children. How had he not seen and understood…?

He sighed, a breath of hot air leaving parted lips and crystallizing on the breeze as he swept a hand back through his pale hair. Children. Because he had lost his chance at being one, ere long after his family was taken from him. The memory of his brother laying cold, half-crushed beneath the wreckage of their home– the crimson staining his snow-white hair remained emblazoned in his mind just as fresh as it had been the day it had happened.

The next breath was shakier before he heard Aymeric’s voice speaking in the back of his head– far preferable to the echoes of that damnable wyrm that seemed to manifest from time to time, though he knew better. Aymeric, talking about the future for their children, and their children’s children.

Estinien had never cared for the snow. It had come only with and after death. But now, as it began to build up in corners and upon the streets, he spied a group of children, faces dirty but cheeks rosy as they laughed and packed it into the perfect shape for lobbing.

This time there was no rage, no strange and distant hatred seeping into him, and he realized with a quickening of his heart that perhaps many things he had thought of himself and his opinions on the world had ever been skewed by the presence of Nidhogg who hated everything that had to do with humanity and most of all, Estinien’s own people. Mayhap, he did not hate as deeply as once he thought.

Grinning, and driven by some unknown and sudden sense of purpose, he hefted himself up onto the stone wall and peered down into the gloom of the Brume. The light of fires here and there to keep the folk warm cast the sight of the group of starvelings playing their game warm and a bit eerie. This did not stop the former Azure Dragoon from donning his gloves and packing a snowball of his own– only to hurl it (gently, of course) at one boy below him. He heard a curse and a few cries of surprise, and a chorus of “Oi, who’s there?”

He scurried further down the length of the wall only to toss another, and another– and it was almost comical that he didn’t expect to be caught, as it was clear where he was hiding after all, and sure enough, a group of children were staring at him owl eyed in a matter of minutes, huffing and puffing and–

“Who’s this weird old guy?” One boy said to another. 

 

“Don’t you know who that is?!” A girl chirped above the others, pointing with such a ferocity that he feared the flapping of her arm might make her fly away.

“What– that’s the Azure Drag–” Estinien raised a finger to his lips, shaking his head just as the girl covered the younger boy’s mouth to hush him.

“If you’ll forgive us I. My brother n’ I heard when you were brought back from what happened at the Steps o’ Faith and we wanted t’ see so. We may have peeked inta the window at the Houses of Healing. ‘Cause!! They said you’d turned inta some… dragon man.. thing! and we’re terribly sorry but-” Just as she meant to continue her apology, the young Elezen boy she was silencing pried her hand loose.

“What’s the damn Azure Dragoon doin’ tossin’ bleedin’ snowballs at us!” The entire group burst into laughter and– even Estinien found himself laughing, trying not to topple over from his crouched position against the wall.

“Well, I haven’t decided yet, but if you wish not to get pelted again you’d best start running now.” He responded cheekily, another icy missile already being scooped into his hands.

The rabble exploded into a ruckus as Estinien chose his victim, and another boy frantically scooped up snow to dump upon the man’s head with a hearty “GET ‘IM!”

He may be dragging himself in like a wet rat after getting thoroughly trounced by the equivalent of a nursery school later, but he had no desire to disengage. For the first time since he had claimed the eye of Nidhogg from Ser Alberic, he felt nothing but joy, and his heart rang with laughter.

For the future, and for their children, indeed.


	4. At Rhalgr's Reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien hears on his travels that Aymeric and the Temple Knights are coming to the Scions' aid.

_A LETTER WRITTEN AND THEN PROMPTLY DISPOSED OF:_   
**My Lord Commander,**

**I tried so hard not to notice you watching me. Tried to forget even your name, until you forced your way in. My heart cannot give any person what they might long for, what they need. I am a shell of a person, and I can only live bound to my duty until I die. How I am not dead yet, still eludes me—by the grace of a couple of Scions’ determination and nothing more. Would that your arrow had pierced my heart. Perhaps that is what I would have preferred.**

**Alas, things are not so simple, and I cannot resent or deny the gift given to me in the meantime.**

**I know that everything inside would have spilled over should I have remained, and that is why I must not. I am eager to leave this life behind and perhaps find a path I can walk that won’t leave you in the path of the raging storm that is in me. I know naught of tenderness and vows, and what passion I know is ill-fated.**

**You, Ser will walk in the light. That is what I want for you more than anything. All else is irrelevant.**

**It has been an honor.**

**In your debt,**

**E.**

He should not have been here. Nay—not just here—he should not have been anywhere near him. Still, Estinien deemed himself unworthy of Aymeric’s company, still, he punished himself for the things that had come to pass from his own stubborn arrogance. No amount of forgiveness seemed to touch him, though he was always quick to forgive others-- and ot forget. Though he had been forgiven, he could not forgive himself—even as he tried to make for himself a better life. 

It didn’t stop him from choosing what made him miserable, however—and even his brief stint of revealing himself to the Warrior of Light was short lived. Reunited lovers, long held captive by Nidhogg's awful chorus… how quaint– how terrible, how _awful_ , that he would never know the same mercy.

The camp was quiet, and he was sure to be discovered if he lingered too long. Rhalgr’s reach was just a stop on the way back for the traveling detachment. He knew that much. Aymeric was so bound to Foundation, he loved it so dearly—as did he. The very thought of it made his heart twist painfully as he watched the rise and fall of the Lord Commander’s chest. How long had it been since he had been this close to him?

Estinien drew a breath, moving with all the stealth that he possessed to get just a little closer. He lowered his gaze and tried to stop his trembling. A glove was pulled loose as he reached out, moving a few dark curls from Aymeric’s brow. The moonlight filtering in from the outside made it all—well, nearly unfair really. He pursed his lips to hold back the pain, and the brush of his skin against the Lord Commander’s was almost too much to bear. He’d kept himself from going back for a myriad of reasons, but to think that he’d see him passing through like this was an unspeakably cruel fate. The rumor he had told himself to ignore—but he had had to see him with his own eyes-- and now here he was. 

He had at first, felt nothing but shame for the way he found Aymeric in his eyes– beautiful: stunningly so. He had been the clearest and most obvious weakness. If he had let him in, Nidhogg would have used it as a tool with which to tear him apart. Yes, he had spent years pretending as though he did not notice Aymeric’s interest in him whether it was as a friend or more; pretending that he didn’t even remember his name at times– but there was nothing for it. He was everything that Estinien could not be, and distracted as he was by the hate and vengeance he lived for, Aymeric was the embodiment of hope, the very vessel of light in his mind. 

A trembling breath stifled itself in his throat, interrupted his reverie—just as the tip of a blade was pressed to his throat from the back. Estinien immediately raised his hands in surrender, glove dropping heavily to the stone floor he had knelt on. An armored hand guided him to his feet and then tugged him to step back. His assailant, surely a knight of Ishgard he figured from the sound of the mail and the blade itself—drew him back and out of the room, away from the object of his affections. 

“I ought to separate your head from your shoulders for showing your face like this, Ser Estinien.” It was a familiar voice, and how it filled him with dread–

“ _My lady_ ,” There was no apology he could utter, and he knew she knew it. 

“In fact, what I ought to do is hold you here like this until he wakes. Do you think you're leaving him as a boon? A blessing? You have left a deeper wound than any traitor’s knife ever has.” She continued, as cutting as the sharp edge of the blade at his throat. 

“You must let me go, I _beg_ of you.” He began slowly. The thought of facing Aymeric now, here of all places, brought a panic to the surface that Estinien didn’t even know he could feel. 

“Ah? Must I? I am the guard on duty, and you are my detainee, Estinien.” It was a tease, likely—but he had not the heart to turn his lance on Lucia, least of all with Aymeric sleeping away so sereely nearby. 

“Lucia, _please_.” With earnest, he offered his plea though it amounted to little. 

She released him, and he pulled away immediately, turning to face her—to put just a bit of space between them. Another spike of familiarity in his gut. 

“I implore you Estinien, not as your fellow Knight, but as your friend. Stay. Speak with him. He waits for you, even now.” 

“With all due respect, Lady Lucia I… have not atoned for my trespasses. I am not worthy to be at his side. And—I am no longer a knight.” Estinien was already backing away, judging the distance to the nearest broken pillar upon which he would soon jump and make his escape. He could see that she knew exactly what he was doing. 

“Damn it, Estinien—and damn you and your martyr complex. He doesn’t care about honor or that you’re lowborn or—any of it–” But before she finished he was gone with the speed that dragoons were known for, leaving Lucia fuming and Aymeric none-the-wiser to his ill-fated visit.


	5. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fall of Shinryu, Estinien faces his most important choice.

The battle that raged on was beyond Estinien’s understanding– and he nearly panicked when he lost sight of the warriors of light and Shinryu altogether (where had they gone? What had happened?) but it seemed that his calling remained the same– that he had not been forsaken by fate.

Finally, the eyes of Nidhogg and the last of his spent aether lay amid the flowers of the Royal Menagerie.

He waited for the song of victory and those in its procession to fall quiet– and bypassed the body going cold in its armor. A pathetic fate, really.

His lance transferred easily into his hand, and he held it steady, heart pounding. He could take them. Keep them safe. He was the Azure Dragoon, and they were the domain of no other. The whisper of power was familiar, and he hesitated if only for the smallest moment.

All of the emptiness, the aimlessness could go away. He had hated Nidhogg the better part of his life, but he had needed him. Relied on him. Been all but one with him. Unseeing, the slitted pupils stared up at him, and his hands shook. He could take them and go and never be seen again–

_Aymeric._

Aymeric, who waited for him. Aymeric, who believed in him even now--

The moment the rancor had taken him– the panic on the Warrior of Light's face before he’d lost all will and sunk into the dark of Nidhogg’s mind-- that it had been his last glimpse of consciousness before slipping away for a time. It was all too cruel. He could not be the cause of that pain again. He had grown.

His grip tightened and his lance pierced one eye and then another, watching the dark aura of the wyrm’s aether dissipate.

**Author's Note:**

> I like to imagine our random Elezen boy went on to join Hilda's boys.


End file.
